‘There will be neither first nor last, Mrs. Thorne. I exhausted the very small dancing power that is in me on Hortense and Eulalie this afternoon. I have not waltzed with a partner over seven for years,’ added Gaston. ‘My step dates from the days of Louis Philippe.’
Nevertheless he moved away from Dinah; he followed whithersoever Mrs. Thorne might choose to lead.
She chose the Luc dunes—that broad belt of wind-blown sand, held together by coarse grasses or sea thistles, which stretches the entire length of the straggling village, and forms a welcome contrast to the burnt-up turf terrace, with burnt-up geraniums, mildewed urns, and peeling stucco goddesses of loftier watering-places.
This evening Luc was merry-making. There were fireworks, there was a procession of torches—one of those ever-recurring processions by which the hearts of Parisian children, big and little, are gladdened at the seaside. Tiny figures marched, two and two, with Chinese lamps along the village causeway. A band of small boys evoked martial melody from drum and fife. Catherine-wheels rotated, rockets scurried up into space. By and by an artfully constructed bonfire of colza stalks flared up in the centre of the plage. Hand linked in hand the children danced around it.
‘Nous irons aux bois,
Les lauriers sont coupés.’
Their shrill voices rang across the dunes. Gaston Arbuthnot could descry his friends, Hortense and Eulalie, wildly circling around the red flames with the rest. As he did so, he thought involuntarily of his sketch-book, forgotten from the moment when the children laid violent hands upon him, hours ago, until this instant.
‘Oh, I know! Your sketch-book is gone,’ cried Linda, as he felt in pocket after pocket. ‘This is the Nemesis that falls on creatures of impulse, Mr. Arbuthnot.’
‘But it is no joking matter. Every memorandum I have made during the last month—gone!’
For once Gaston’s voice was tragic. He knew full well the market value of those rough notes of his.